78
THE UNIVERSAL
BROTHERHOOD OF MAN
BRIANNA LIFTED THE WAXED CLOTH covering one of the big earthenware basins, and sniffed, taking pleasure in the musty, turned-earth smell. She stirred the pale mess with a stick, lifting it out periodically in order to assess the texture of the pulp that dripped from it.
Not bad. Another day, and it would be dissolved enough to press. She considered whether to add more of the dilute sulfuric acid solution, but decided against it, and instead reached into the bowl at her side, filled with the limp petals of dogwood and redbud flowers gathered for her by Jemmy and Aidan. She scattered a handful of these delicately over the grayish pulp, stirred them in, then covered the bowl again. By tomorrow, they’d be no more than faint outlines, but still visible as shadows in the finished sheets of paper.
“I’d always heard that paper mills stank.” Roger made his way through the bushes toward her. “Perhaps they use something else in the making?”
“Be glad I’m not tanning hides,” she advised him. “Ian says the Indian women use dog turds for that.”
“So do European tanners; they just call the stuff ‘pure.’”
“Pure what?”
“Pure dog turds, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “How’s it going?”
Coming up beside her, he looked with interest at her own small paper factory: a dozen big, fired-clay basins, each filled with scraps of used paper, worn-out scraps of silk and cotton, flax fibers, the soft pith of cattail reeds, and anything else she could get her hands on that might be useful, torn to shreds or ground small in a quern. She’d dug out a small seep, and laid one of her broken water pipes as a catch basin, to provide a convenient water supply; nearby, she’d built a platform of stone and wood, on which stood the framed silk screens in which she pressed the pulp.
There was a dead moth floating in the next bowl, and he reached to take it out, but she waved him away.
“Bugs drown in it all the time, but as long as they’re soft-bodied, it’s okay. Enough sulfuric acid”—she nodded at the bottle, stoppered with a bit of rag—“and they all just become part of the pulp: moths, butterflies, ants, gnats, lacewings . . . wings are the only things that won’t dissolve all the way. Lacewings look sort of pretty embedded in the paper, but not roaches.” She fished one of these out of a bowl and flicked it away into the bushes, then added a little more water from the gourd dipper, stirring.
“I’m not surprised. I stamped on one of them this morning; he flattened out, then popped back up and strolled off, smirking.” He paused a moment; he wanted to ask her something, she could tell, and she made an interrogative hum to encourage him.
“I was only wondering—would ye mind taking Jem up to the Big House after supper? Perhaps the two of ye spending the night?”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“What are you planning to do? Throw a stag party for Gordon Lindsay?” Gordon, a shy boy of about seventeen, was betrothed to a Quaker girl from Woolam’s Mill; he’d been round the day before to “thig”—beg small bits of household goods in preparation for his marriage.
“No girls popping out of cakes,” he assured her, “but it’s definitely men only. It’s the first meeting of the Fraser’s Ridge Lodge.”
“Lodge . . . what, Freemasons?” She squinted dubiously at him, but he nodded. The breeze had come up, and it whipped his black hair up on end; he smoothed it back with one hand.
“Neutral ground,” he explained. “I didna want to suggest holding meetings in either the Big House or Tom Christie’s place—not wanting to favor either side, ye might say.”
She nodded, seeing that.
“Okay. But why Freemasons?” She knew nothing whatever about Freemasons, save that they were some sort of secret society and that Catholics weren’t allowed to join.
She mentioned this particular point to Roger, who laughed.
“True,” he said “The Pope forbade it about forty years ago.”
“Why? What does the Pope have against Freemasons?” she asked, interested.
“It’s rather a powerful body. A good many men of power and influence belong—and it crosses international lines. I imagine the Pope’s actual concern is competition in terms of power-broking—though if I recall aright, his stated reason was that Freemasonry is too much like a religion itself. Oh, that, and they worship the Devil.”
He laughed.
“Ye did know your father started a Lodge at Ardsmuir, in the prison there?”
“Maybe he mentioned it; I don’t remember.”
“I did bring up the Catholic thing with him. He gave me one of those looks of his and said, ‘Aye, well, the Pope wasna in Ardsmuir Prison, and I was.’”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” she said, amused. “But then, I’m not the Pope. Did he say why? Da, I mean, not the Pope.”
“Sure—as a means of uniting the Catholics and Protestants imprisoned together. One of the principles of Freemasonry being the universal brotherhood of man, aye? And another being that ye don’t talk religion or politics in Lodge.”
“Oh, you don’t? What do you do in Lodge, then?”
“I can’t tell you. Not worshipping the Devil, though.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged.
“I can’t,” he repeated. “When ye join, you take an oath not to talk outside the Lodge about what’s done there.”
She was mildly miffed at that, but dismissed it, going back to add more water to one bowl. It looked as though someone had thrown up in it, she thought critically, and reached for the acid bottle.
“Sounds pretty fishy to me,” she remarked. “And kind of silly. Isn’t there something about secret handshakes, that sort of thing?”
He merely smiled, not bothered by her tone.
“I’m not saying there isn’t a bit of stage business involved. It’s more or less medieval in origin, and it’s kept quite a bit of the original trappings—rather like the Catholic Church.”
“Point taken,” she said dryly, picking up a ready bowl of pulp. “Okay. So, is it Da’s idea to start a Lodge here?”
“No, mine.” His voice lost its humorous tone, and she looked at him sharply.
“I need a way to give them common ground, Bree,” he said. “The women have it—the fishers’ wives sew and spin and knit and quilt wi’ the others, and if they privately think you or your mother or Mrs. Bug are heretics damned to hell, or goddamned Whigs, or whatever, it seems to make no great difference. But not the men.”
She thought of saying something about the relative intelligence and common sense of the two sexes, but feeling that this might be counterproductive just at the moment, nodded understanding. Besides, he obviously had no notion of the kind of gossip that went on in sewing circles.
“Hold that screen steady, will you?”
He obligingly grasped the wooden frame, pulling taut the edges of the finely drawn wire threaded through it, as instructed.
“So,” she said, spooning the thin gruel of the pulp onto the silk, “do you want me to provide milk and cookies for this affair tonight?”
She spoke with considerable irony, and he smiled across the screen at her.
“That’d be nice, aye.”
“I was joking!”
“I wasn’t.” He was still smiling, but with complete seriousness behind his eyes, and she realized suddenly that this wasn’t a whim. With an odd small twist of the heart, she saw her father standing there.
One had known the care of other men from his earliest years, a part of the duty of his birthright; the other had come to it later, but both felt that burden to be the will of God, she had no doubt at all—both accepted that duty without question, would honor it, or die in trying. She only hoped it wouldn’t come to that—for either of them.
“Give me one of your hairs,” she said, looking down to hide what she felt.
“Why?” he asked, but was plucking a strand from his head even as he spoke.
“The paper. The pulp shouldn’t be spread any thicker than a hair.” She laid the black thread at the edge of the silk screen, then spread the creamy liquid thin and thinner, so it flowed past the hair but did not cover it. It flowed with the liquid, a sinuous dark line through the white, like the tiny crack on the surface of her heart.